Anneliese’s hair fluttered in the high-altitude breeze as she meditated beneath the endless clouds. Her thoughts weren’t on the long descent ahead but on the subtle tremors resonating through the Temple of the Last —a forewarning of an approaching force. The stairway steps below flickered with rippling light, their glow pulsing in sync with the steady march of Bradfrey’s advancing army.
From the shifting clouds emerged Anyata’s ghost, her translucent figure returning from Weddle’s preparations below. Her ghost hovered beside Anneliese, silent but watchful, awaiting a command that came not in words, but the shuddering vibrations that rippled through the magical plane, carrying Id’s ominous, malevolent hiss.
Far below, within the trenches of the pagan camp, Weddle prepared his horse. As he tightened the straps, his eyes instinctively lifted toward the sky, where the parting clouds revealed the Temple’s radiant blue halo. Sensing Anyata’s imminent arrival, he mounted his Clydesdale. The saddle rattled with silver and gold ornaments forged from melted-down pagan treasures. “Well, here we go,” Weddle muttered, his grip tightening on the reins just as Anyata’s ghost materialized before him.
Weddle urged his horse forward, his eyes scanning the horizon for a sign from the Almighty. Though nothing appeared, he felt an intangible shift—a spiritual weight lifting, leaving him strangely light. Ahead, torchlight flared along barricades of toppled wagons and dirt mounds, where children worked tirelessly to create the illusion of greater numbers.
Beside him, gray-haired warriors escorted Weddle past clusters of trembling youth clutching crude spears and rusted farm tools. Their fear was palpable, yet they saluted his departure with quiet reverence, their hopes pinned on his mission.
At the heart of the camp, the steady pounding of drums heralded a spiraling bonfire, its crackling flames alive with the presence of Kulum. Upwind, a haunting chant—“Ommm ooooo… Ommm ooooo…”—carried on the breeze, its eerie resonance thickening the night air.
Through the front gate, Weddle rode. Alone. A white flag raised high, his hood drawn low over his face. Smoke curled around him, shrouding his departure in shifting haze. Only the white flag, tethered to a wooden cross, remained visible—an unspoken declaration of their intent.
As Weddle approached Bradfrey’s encirclements, the smoky air thickened as the pagan barricades glowed with an eerie light. Ghostly figures of fallen warriors emerged from the spectral hue, forming a seamless phalanx around the camp. Their presence exuded a quiet menace, unnerving the encircling soldiers who hesitated, unwilling to provoke the supernatural forces that now stood guard.
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A steadfast rock amid untamed oceans, Sir Bradfrey stood resolute, unfazed by the surrounding theatrics. Meanwhile, their delegate, Davos, positioned himself at the pivotal point of the formation, anchoring the triangle between Bradfrey’s reserves and the enclosing regiments.
“How does a servant of God intertwine so freely with the devil’s work?” Davos called out as Weddle’s horse plodded forward, its pace slow but deliberate. Davos circled him, scrutinizing every detail of the friar’s demeanor.
“I’m but a humble friar,” Weddle replied, throwing back his hood with a casual grin. “Shining the Lord’s light for those who’ve only ever known darkness.”
“You’re him. Weddle.” Davos maneuvered his horse to block Weddle’s path, forcing an uneven trot. “Where were you during the Battle of Keesh?”
“With the Good Book and a warm blanket. Yourself?” Weddle replied lightly.
Davos’s lips tightened. “Wondering how far Cestmir’s web reached. And now I find you here—with an army of the undead.”
“What in the mother of—” Weddle muttered, shifting uneasily in his saddle. His placid smile tugged harder at his lips as he glanced over his shoulder, sensing the odds tilt ever so slightly in their favor.
Yet something deeper stirred—a spiritual pulse, like static electricity crackling at the base of his skull. His smile faltered. “I was actually going to suggest…” He trailed off as the unseen presence erupted from the Temple grounds above. His words faltered, as though caught in a rising tide of confusion. “The Temple’s practically un-un-undefended, but that’s before... Still, they seem harmless enough, don’t you think?”
“That’s a bluff if I’ve ever heard one,” Davos snapped, leaning closer, searching Weddle’s eyes for deceit. Unbeknownst to him, the same unseen force traced the air between them, distorting it like heat haze on a summer day.
“Could be. I mean, I’m quite unfamiliar with how this works. Am I supposed to negotiate hostages? Or am I the hostage?” Weddle inquired, struggling to maintain his calm amid his usual bumbling disposition.
Davos’s posture stiffened as irritation crept into his expression. He glanced back toward the glowing phalanx of ghosts, distrust darkening his features. “Hmm. Well then, what are your terms?”
“Does swapping Kulum for Sir Bradfrey sound reasonable?”
Davos scoffed, shaking his head. “Amusing… truly. Perhaps I should take you as my hostage—minus your tongue and a bit of dead weight below the neck. Or does a wandering friar have anything more to offer than lies and misdirection?”
Weddle’s grip tightened on the reins as Davos’s temper flared, his horse growing restless under the subtle influence of the presence circling them both. “You must leave immediately,” Weddle blurted, his voice firm despite the rising tension. “Anneliese is after Arcadius, but she can’t save Bradfrey if Kulum reaches him first.”
Davos blinked, taken aback. The fear of something greater flashed in his eyes as he glanced nervously around. “Oh, my lord…” he muttered, panic creeping into his voice.
He spurred his horse into motion, shouting orders to the ranks as his free hand pointed wildly toward a shimmering distortion forming behind Bradfrey’s lines. It converged like a growing storm, where, in the magical realm, Anneliese sat in meditation—her focus set on the next stage of her plan.